


that which is called madness, that which is love

by erzi



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28866645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: To fell a deer, you shoot for the vital organs. To fell a king, you shoot for his crown. To fell who you love, where do you point?
Relationships: Rook Hunt/Vil Schoenheit
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55





	that which is called madness, that which is love

**Author's Note:**

> this has spoilers for chapter 5 of the main story. the rest is me filling in the blanks to my gay little heart's desire
> 
> as i do not speak jpn, the dialogue lifted from the game was taken from [this translation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQfm8bBjJjA) and [this translation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BGO2cdjhJFk), as well as [this translation](https://twitter.com/strawberryxtalk/status/1350768247457550336)

There is terror in beauty. Its ideals are almost impossible; none but the bravest-hearted attempt to make beauty theirs. To be beautiful is to never _not_ think of one's appearance and others' perceptions. Every cosmetic, mannerism, expression, and outfit contributes to a larger purpose. There is intent in everything. Even breathing. Because if you breathe you are alive, you are inextricably seen; in being seen, it is of paramount importance to carry on with beauty.

And there is beauty in terror. How else to know you live if a threat to that is not encountered? The height of life, the purest of its thrills, is to know it can end. Regardless of how death comes—expectedly or all at once—come it will.

The human experience is myriad in its spectrum, and though Rook prefers to keep to its lighter side, the beauty Vil maintains even corrupted is terrifying. Terrifying in his appearance, his greediest desires materialized. Terrifying in that Vil could corrupt. 

Vil's efforts in his pursuit of perfection have not been without sacrifice; Rook himself has witnessed what Vil has willingly lost to gain the finest crown of them all. But it never seemed like it affected Vil negatively. When perfection came close to his fingertips only to slip away, Rook did not think that Vil felt anything but a stronger desire to prevail. 

It had been foolish of Rook to forget that, in the end, even a king is a person, flawed as mere men. For Vil to be anything but glittering—it falls on Rook for not having noticed Vil's imperfect parts that have led them here. If he hadn't ardently believed in Vil, perhaps he would not be adorned by gilded feather and torn silk, encircled with spikes, a veil folded over the back of his head as if to reveal this Vil for who he'd always been.

If this is how he is when he has lost control, then it _is_ him. But, as an overblot, it's only the worst parts of himself. It doesn't capture what makes Vil worthy not just of the world's attention but being centered as Rook's. What makes Vil worthy—what makes Rook love him—is undeniable. Even if Vil has succumbed to the rot in his thoughts, it does not detract from how he can shine.

This rot is not how he should be. There is terror in beauty and beauty in terror, but Vil has never wanted to frighten. 

"Don't _look_ at me!" he screams, that voice Rook could hear and discern from among thousands now overlaid with an inhuman richness. Like it's not only Vil speaking, but his deep self-hatred personified, speaking a breath after Vil, his words echoed.

The most difficult part about hunting isn't making the kill. It is the wait, the hours spent with body taut and eyes wide, watching every breath your quarry takes to predict what next it will do—and then keep that from ever realizing. A well-aimed shot should occur but once. The moment the arrow is loosened is everything.

Rook has long watched Vil, and Rook has long hunted, but this is neither. It's something wonderful and horrible of its own.

To fell a deer, you shoot for the vital organs. To fell a king, you shoot for his crown. To fell who you love, where do you point?

 _I can adjust the strength of my magic_ , Rook thinks, sharpened instincts taking over where personal feelings are dazed. _This is not to kill. It is only to free him from himself._

He darts behind a toppled pillar before a whip-like wraith of Vil's magic strikes him. From the pillar's opposite side, he steals a glimpse of Vil, and instantly calculates his center of gravity.

Rook runs back out, boots splashing over puddles, aiming a weakened spell toward Vil. His face is trained to a hunter's impassivity defying the madness of his heartbeat. _Now._

Vil, hovering, dips just the slightest, clutching his stomach. But he remains suspended; his anger has only been heightened. The poison mist he exudes darkens, grows, and flings itself out in all directions with the haste and appearance of thunderclouds gathering for the worst.

And the worst approaches. Already it is difficult to breathe; Vil's poison, diluted over the swath the mist takes up, will nonetheless harm them if they continue to breathe it, especially with the last of Vil's great magical strength imbued into it. 

Part of the hunt is knowing if your quarry has bested you. Vil has. Mixed with Rook's fear is a twisted pride, a rightness, because even like this Vil is a force to be reckoned with.

Over the din of rain and Vil's wrath, past the bitter burning in his throat, Rook shouts that they need to flee; that they are unsafe here.

Deuce, across the stage from Rook, has another plan. "Everyone get down!" he yells, raising his magical pen above him. Where Vil has summoned what passes for thunderclouds, Deuce calls forth what looks like lightning. Electricity sparkles around him, a maelstrom crackling with power he hadn't had moments ago.

His unique magic. All the attacks Vil has leveled on him, reciprocated.

 _Ah_ , Rook thinks as he drops to the ground but always, always with eyes on Vil.

Deuce's magic is Vil's. Vil has never experienced a power to rival his—much less his indomitable own—and the force he is is what downs him and his monstrous apparition. 

The rain dwindles. Vil falls, cloak fluttering, resembling one of the many birds Rook himself has pierced through. 

But he's never run out to catch them.

It doesn't matter the clothes manifested on Vil reflect the distance he's put between himself and others—the _look, damn you, look; but don't touch_ in those glittering spikes around his waist, clawing from his fingers. At the speed Vil plunges down at, the spikes will maim Rook, and it doesn't matter at all.

Rook catches Vil, and the moment he does the rotted clothes Vil's inner self viewed himself in dissipate. Nothing pierces Rook—nothing new. The twinge in his heart is old.

The Vil in Rook's arms is not quite the one knows. His uniform is rumpled, sullied with rain and dirt. His eyes are closed. His makeup has smeared from sweat, exerted from his pent-up fury; and tears, released for the same. His lips are parted, his body slack, his face smoothed by silence. A lock of hair has tugged free from his braid and clings to his temple, and Rook's hands, protectively holding on to Vil, twitch from needing to brush it back; to wipe the filth, today's and many yesterdays', from him.

"Over here, Rook!" Kalim says. He waves him over while pointing to a slab of stone. 

Rook goes over and carefully sets Vil down, staying kneeled. Hands freed, he tucks the errant lock aside and does not move his hand away from Vil's cheek. As the sun ekes its way from the clouds, the debris from the battle floats in its slants casting light over what they've destroyed. 

Vil's chest rises and falls gently as snowfall; his skin is pallid and cool. He's lost within himself. What does he see therein? If already he has braved to them his most intimate fears—through nothing gentle, but something that could not be repressed anymore—what does he see in himself when that has been spent?

 _Let it be kind,_ Rook thinks.

The others, hesitantly accepting the fight is over, begin to gather.

"Should we go get a professor?" Epel asks, folding and re-folding his hands in front of him.

Jamil shakes his head. "No. It would be troublesome if what happened here got out. We'll need to come up with a cover story to tell until VDC is over." He glances at Vil. "I'm certain he'd agree." His glance flits to Rook. 

Rook smiles. "He would."

"We should at least get him to the infirmary or something, shouldn't we?" Ace says. 

"When the other guys had overblot, they woke up quickly," Grim says. He nudges Yuu's leg. "Right?" 

"That's true," Yuu replies. "We should wait here."

Every pair of eyes except the ones Rook needs most turn to him. They think if Vil cannot speak, the one closest to his voice should.

He ignores those eyes for Vil. The color is returning to his countenance. Rook peels off a glove and presses the back of his hand to Vil's forehead. _He has gotten warmer, too,_ he thinks, putting his glove back on. 

But still Vil sleeps.

This is what the stories so love: the sleeping princess, the prince who would save her at her side, a kiss away.

Is Rook even Vil's prince? Certainly he is Vil's in the manner that a poison may, but not must, have an antidote. But his prince? Does he deserve it? Does anyone?

Rook has leaned in closer, realizing only when Vil's exhale quivers against his skin.

Vil needed the world's eyes on him; its unanimous laudation of his beauty, unmatched. The world, it seems, is blind. And far too large. For Rook, the only world worth knowing is here, in the shape of— neither a princess nor prince, nor a king or queen. Vil is above such titles. There is, Rook reflects, no good word for everything that Vil is. He's just _Vil_ , and his name is enough. All of his efforts have always been enough.

"I only wish you were aware of it, too," he murmurs, sweeping off his hat.

"Huh?" Kalim says. "What was that, Rook?"

Rook's hat hides them both, serving for a semblance of privacy as he presses his lips to Vil's in pride and in devotion. 

Even a heartbeat lasts longer than the kiss. He places his hat back on his head, pulling back, aware of the looks the others are giving him without needing to directly confirm them—there is little else a hat would conceal with two people so close. Let them think what they will; that had not been for their sake. He briefly smiles to the clearing heavens, then turning his attention to Vil. Watching for movement. For any sign something as quixotic as a kiss will truly rouse him from slumber.

Still, he sleeps.

"Vil," Rook says, resting his hands on the littered ground. "Ah, beauty that you are. Please… wake up for me."

Perhaps more of a plea, in his quiet way. The only demand he will ever make of Vil.

A soft sound. (Rook's pause, his intake of breath stopped short.) A perfect violet eye peeking open, perfectly meeting its mark with Rook. "Why am I here…?" Vil asks, sitting up, blinking himself to his senses.

"Vil!" Rook says, his name and the strength it carries slipped from his tongue. He'd not thought that would work, but. Here they are. Instinct subsides, his heart resumes its duty. A smile slides easily on his face, and true as it is, it's the most shallow part of the depth of his sentiments. Right now, it is the only thing he can vaunt, but vaunt it he does with a warmth to rival the incoming sun. "I'm glad you're awake. Your eyes have returned to their usual sparkle."

Vil gets to his feet, and whatever impropriety their kiss might have held is forgotten by the others, crowding in close, expressing their relief, sharing their grievances—because Vil's behavior didn't impact him as a singularity. But that is a conversation they must have later, in a more private place.

There are too many conversations, ongoing simultaneously, and Vil sways. 

"Vil!" Rook says again, reaching out an unthinking hand, offering his name as it is meant to be spoken.

Of course Vil dismisses his hand. He has already shown himself at his lowest and will not add to it by admitting continuing weakness.

And of course Rook dismisses _that_. "You have taken a lot of damage. Please don't force yourself," he says. "Put your hands on my shoulder."

After a moment's hesitation, Vil does just that.

Will wonders never cease? 

Rook's eyes travel from Vil's hands to his face, surprise plain on his features. He meets Vil's gaze and another conversation is exchanged entirely without words: _We_ will _talk later_. _First, let's achieve what we came here for._

His surprise yields to tenderness. He gives a small nod, but Vil sees it—his hold on Rook firms up and loosens.

It hasn't loosened enough to indicate he will remove his hand entirely, but Rook will not chance it. He reaches back to place a light hand over Vil's and cranes his head aside to regard Vil, now the surprised one. _You can depend on me_ , his eyes say, his hand assures. _It is alright, now and always._

If Vil is already the essence of perfection, what to make of the smile he gives Rook?

 _Every day you steal my breath away when you show me what you are capable of, in good and in bad,_ Rook thinks, facing the front. He loves Vil more than he did yesterday, but less than he will tomorrow. Of that there is no doubt. It's beyond a hunter's instinct: it's a truth.

This isn't the place to say as much. Later, as promised. Later.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [this quote](https://dicocitations.lemonde.fr/citation_auteur_ajout/88676.php#:~:text=200%20000%20citations%20proverbes%20et%20dictons.&text=Proverbe%20d'amour-,J'ai%20aim%C3%A9%20jusqu'%C3%A0%20atteindre%20la%20folie.,la%20seul%20fa%C3%A7on%20d'aimer.) which gets translated most often to _I have loved to the point of madness, that which is called madness, that which to me is the only sensible way to love_. feel like a pinterest white girl pulling this shit


End file.
